


Ever Unknown

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durin Through the Ages, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Mythology, Flashbacks, Fourth Age, Gen, Reincarnation, Second Age, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25489633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Durin knows more than most, which is a side effect of living so long.This is not the same as knowing everything.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	Ever Unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MegMarch1880](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegMarch1880/gifts).



When Durin came of age for the second time, his father pulled him aside and said, with rather a nervous twist of his mouth, “We need to talk.”

His father was the king of Khazad-dum. He was not much in the habit of looking nervous. Durin’s own concern immediately rose.

“Is there trouble with the elves?” The elves had left them alone so far, but they were by far the ones most likely to concern his father, so - 

“No, no,” his father said, waving an impatient hand. “This is a more . . . personal talk.”

Durin racked his brain for any behavior of his that could have drawn censure from his father. Nothing came to mind.

“Your mother mentioned that she thought you might not . . . but I’m sure you know already, you’ve always had a knack for . . . knowing things . . .”

Durin did indeed have a knack for knowing things, including things no one could have possibly told him that he still inexplicably knew. Like how to fight with a warhammer before he’d been taught. Or where the hidden tunnel his namesake had carved out in case of disaster began.

His father looked hopeful. Unfortunately, Durin still wasn’t entirely sure what they were discussing.

This must have come across on his face because his father sighed hopelessly and said, “Look, son, you’ll need an heir. You know where those come from, don’t you?”

This was a much simpler matter than he had begun to fear. “Of course,” he assured his father. 

His father looked relieved.

“You carve an image of a child - or children - and then you offer up your best work as a sacrifice and pray to Mahal to intercede on your behalf that the life flame may be given to your children,” Durin said promptly. “And then if he’s pleased with you the stone will grow warm, and you’ll have a child, and if he’s not, you go get better sacrifices and try again.”

His father no longer looked relieved.

“That . . . is not how that works,” his father said.

Durin’s brow furrowed.

_There was a place, as deep into the mountain as he yet dared to delved, where he had carved face after face from the stone._

_All the world had companions, had young, but not him._

_He walked alone._

_He poured out his gold, his blood, and his tears in a molten river before his altar, and for seven nights and days he prayed._

_Please, father. Please._

Durin tried very hard not to argue with his father, but just this once he didn’t think he could avoid it because, well, “I’m really quite sure that it is.”

He wondered how his father had managed to convince Mahal to bless him with an heir without knowing that.

Perhaps his mother had done all the work.

. . .

It was his third life, and Durin knew that elves and treasure were not a good combination.

This had been made more than apparent to him in the First Age. The whole matter of the Silmarils - well, that had been the elves’ business and no concern of his, right up until Thingol had made it the dwarves’ business. The dwarves involved had been no descendants of his, but they had still been dwarves.

The elves thought his people were too greedy for gold, but the elves were far too bloodthirsty over their gems to be throwing stones over it, and Durin knew that for a fact.

But the elves of Ost-in-Edhil had been friends to them, this elf more than most, and he didn’t say that lightly. 

And Celebrimbor was offering up the ring, freely given, and Narvi spoke well of him.

If the dreams grew fiercer whenever he caught a glimpse of that Maia -

_Bright with flames and dripping blood, the figure flew overhead, and a great and terrible fear came over him so that he ducked behind the stone and prayed for the monster to pass over him unnoticed, please, Maker, please -_

Then, well, he had many such dreams, and so many of them spoke of terror. If he flinched from them all, he would never act, only be frozen in mistrusting paranoia. Celebrimbor had brought dreams when first he saw him, and Celebrimbor had proven a great friend.

It would surely prove nothing in the end.

. . .

In his fourth life, his mother liked to say that he had been born a cynic.

She was the third mother he saw die. He thought cynicism was appropriate.

He remembered when it had not been so - the wonder that had filled so much of his first life before it was quashed by fear, and how it had returned in the elation of his second youth. There had been so much then that he still didn’t know.

But he knew better now. He knew that even Maiar could be tricksters, and he knew that elves, no matter how well meaning, could still bring disaster in their treasure’s wake.

_He had carved children and sent them out into the world, and some of them had returned and built cities, and some of them were shot down by elves who never stopped to think. Or to beg forgiveness for what they had unwittingly done._

Better that the dwarves keep to themselves. Better that they all kept to the safety of their mountain. He sought no new enemies, but he needed no new friends.

And if their long friendship with the Men of the Vales of Anduin suffered - Well, no matter what optimism he remembered holding when that friendship was new, perhaps it was for the best.

His ring was cold on his hand, and he thought they might be better off without friends.

. . .

They struck a new vein of mithril in his fifth reign, and Durin knew exactly how blessed they had been.

He remembered, in flashes, the moment he had first looked at this mountain and declared it a home.

_The stars in the water made a crown above him and it was so, so beautiful._

He had known, even then, that it was where he was meant to be.

And nothing would tear him away from it.

. . . 

When the miners, what few of them had survived the attack, came rushing back with tales of fire and shadow, Durin was nearing the end of his sixth reign and he more or less knew it. 

He also more or less thought he recognized what they were talking about, but he couldn’t quite believe it.

It sounded like a Balrog, and Durin knew Balrogs. He dreamed of them, sometimes.

_Nightmares of flame and shadow, and this is not what Durin had hoped to find when he set out to find wonders -_

The elves had fought them, in the First Age. The elves had mostly died doing it, but they’d taken a few down with them. Durin knew Balrogs.

But finding one - finding one not on the edges of drowned Beleriand, but at the bottom of a mine shaft - finding one there was like finding old King Thingol demanding an audience in his throne room. Possible, technically, for a given value of possible, but you didn’t expect the old monsters to simply show up like that in the middle of where they were least wanted.

So he didn’t say what he feared when they came running to him with their tale. It wasn’t like it would matter even if he did share it; the elves had never figured out any tricks to fighting the beasts, at least that they had ever cared to share, it was just a matter of throwing everything you had at one until you got lucky or Mahal decided to bless your axe, so that was what they would do, whether it was a Balrog or not.

He grabbed his axe and set out to do it.

. . . 

He knew every path, every room, even though no one had set foot here in generations and lived to tell the tale. He remembered -

_Laughter dancing down the hallway as he chased a little one down it -_

_A dwarrowdam’s smile, curling up, as their feet pounded the floor -_

_The roar of cheers in the feasting hall after he formally presented his heir -_

He remembered it bursting with life, not this gloomy darkness.

He did not know how long it would take to make it glow with life again.

But they had time now, and friends, and he knew whatever it took, he would bring his home to life once more.


End file.
